


The Cut of Your Trousers

by 72reasons



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: After reading thousands of fanfics I decided to write one, Bulges, First Time, Fluff, Fondling, I love them so much guys, M/M, No actual smut but descriptions of penises, Penis Size, Post HLV, Short scene set the morning after their first night together, These idiots finally get together, be gentle with me please
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-24
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-05-03 03:16:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5274524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/72reasons/pseuds/72reasons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John had been back at Baker street for three months (two days, six hours, 31 minutes, but that really is beside the point) and last night he had done the bravest thing Sherlock had ever witnessed him do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cut of Your Trousers

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta'd. Any mistakes are my own. First time author. Long time John-locker. Obsessed with penises.

Light filters in through the windows and Sherlock knows it is mid-morning. He knows that it is close to 11 am. If he listened close enough to the sounds of the street – the bus, the delivery truck at the grocer next to Speedy’s – he would deduce the time down to the minute. But he’s distracted. He can’t concentrate on that right now. He’s finally got John in his bed. It’s been so many years and last night, well, last night they finally closed the very small physical gap (personal space was almost non-existent at that point) between them, and in fact, they merged into something that was quite the opposite of a gap.

 

Sherlock woke up and froze. He was confused for a moment because he was too warm and felt a bit sticky. He stilled, not wanting to make any flopping moves or strange stretching noises to awaken John. Slowly, he opened his eyes. There he was. John. His John. He’d always been his John, but now it was realized in all of the ways Sherlock had wanted.

 

He didn’t want it from the very beginning. But when he was _away_ he had been surprised to realize his true feelings. Even on the roof. Even seeing John weep at his empty grave. Even then he didn’t know. He thought his feelings were friendship. Real. Strong. True friendship.

 

Then one evening, he was in Egypt following one of Moriarty’s clients who was the head of a kidnapping and sex slave operation. Another spider, not at the center of the web like Moriarty, but at the end of one thread. He was going to bring that fucker down if it was the last thing he did. His life was always in danger when he was away, but this particular spider was sneaky and smart. Sherlock lived in the shadows watching, trying to figure out the spider’s next move. He was not famous there. He could blend in and just watch. He sipped hot tea and watched a woman whom he thought was the spider’s next contact. She was physically beautiful, he supposed, but what she was doing – Selling people. Women. _Girls_ – made Sherlock silently fume.

 

So as to not stare at her, he looked around the café. A man caught his eye. He reminded him of John and his stomach did a little flip. It couldn’t be. He just looked a bit like John. His hair was too dark. But his body was compact and strong like John’s. The man’s stance was familiar, achingly so. Standing sturdy on both feet with arms straight down by his sides, fists clenching on and off. He was waiting for someone. Sherlock looked back at the woman who was still alone and casually smoking a cigarette, the soft glow of her phone lighting up her face. Then he looked back at Not-John, who was now clearly trying to suppress a goofy grin as he looked down the street towards someone walking towards him. A man, taller than Not-John and with floppy blonde hair wearing a long black cotton twill coat, was striding on long legs up the street with purpose. The blonde man was grinning widely and when Sherlock looked back, Not-John’s face had given up its futile fight and was grinning widely back. They practically collided and embraced tightly. They held each other very, very briefly as they pulled back and looked into each others eyes with happy dopey smiles on their faces. Sherlock could see the blonde man say “All right?” and Not-John replied “Yeah, all right.” They then separated and maintained a distance between them that was acceptable for two men in this particular part of the world.

 

But Sherlock had seen it. Maybe others had seen it too, if they were paying attention. Sherlock had seen that these two men were very close, like brothers, with a deep love. But not like brothers because there was something like heat and fondness in their too-long gaze. They looked like two people very deeply in love. Romantic love. Sherlock hadn’t paid too much attention people in love. He thought it was mostly faked or just for the young and hormonal. And that young lust surely wasn’t real or deep love.

 

The blonde man and Not-John had jolted something in Sherlock. He flinched a bit at the realization. He wanted to be the tall man. He wanted his John to look at him like that. He wanted to embrace John on a crowded street, in the light of the street lamps, and have his face betray his feelings with a big goofy smile.

 

_Bloody hell. Really? Here? Now? Fuck. I’m thousands of miles away, and John thinks I’m dead. I made him watch me kill myself. Fuck._

 

“I have to go home,” he said out loud.

 

Ultimately, it took over three months from that day for Sherlock to make his way back to London. Love or not, he had to dismantle Moriarty’s web for the safety of the world and his friends. His best friend.

 

But when he returned John had gotten engaged and ultimately married, to someone Not Sherlock. He had tried, he tried to like her, to help them be happy. All he wanted was for John to be happy. He _vowed_ it, for fucks sake.

 

Months later, Moriarty came back but it wasn’t him, of course, it was Janine. Janine and Mary had worked together for years. There was no baby. Mary disappeared. But Mary had truly loved John. That was true. Was that a surprise to anyone? It's very hard not to love John Watson.

 

John had been back at Baker street for three months (two days, six hours, 31 minutes, but that really was beside the point) and last night he had done the bravest thing Sherlock had ever witnessed him do. ~~~~

Sherlock could see the signs of adrenaline coursing through John as he spoke, but he held steady and his fingers barely trembled, “I am in love with you, I have been for a very long time, if you don’t feel the same, it’s okay. I’m just so very tired of hiding it. I believe we can still live together and be friends, but I had to tell you. I’m sorry, I’ll go now and let you think about this.” At that, John had stood up, nodded once and walked out the door and down the stairs to the street.

 

Sherlock was stunned into silence, frozen there in his chair. It took him a few minutes to come back to the living room at 221B from within his head. He lunged out of his chair, grabbed for his coat, and noisily clattered down the stairs. John was down the block a bit, but Sherlock easily caught up. John took one look at his face, broke into a huge dopey grin, and kissed him right there on Baker Street.

 

Now it was the next morning. Sherlock watched John as he slept, as light and the noise of midday drifted into his bedroom. They weren’t touching but they were lying on their sides facing each other. John was radiating heat, his face relaxed, mouth open, slightly snoring. Sherlock didn’t move a muscle except for his eyes, which roamed over as much of John’s face and hair that he could see. His heart was fucking bursting with adoration for this man, and gratitude to the universe or whatever that finally, finally, they had closed that gap. John suddenly opened his eyes and caught Sherlock watching him sleep. Then soft kisses and murmurs of _good morning_ turned more desperate as they writhed against each other.

 

Now they were sweaty and sated again. After grabbing a flannel to clean them both up a bit, John was laying with his left cheek on Sherlock’s pectoral muscle. Sherlock was on his back with his right arm around John’s head and neck, drawing lazy soft circles around his scarred shoulder. John’s right hand roamed over Sherlock’s belly, down to scratch into the neatly trimmed hair around his softening damp cock.

 

“I used to think about what this looked like,” John says very softly. He looks up into Sherlock’s eyes with a smirk and mischief in his eyes.

 

“What? What what looked like?”

 

“You. Well, your cock,” John didn’t look at Sherlock’s eyes during his admission. “I don’t know. I wondered about you. Would you be big? Circumcised?” He huffed a small laugh, “Did you ever use the thing?”

 

“John.” Sherlock admonished shyly.

 

John kissed him, then licked right where shoulder meets pectoral, just near the soft hair under his arms. Sherlock softly groaned.

 

“I’d watch you, and stare at your crotch in those stupid fitted trousers of yours. The cut is infuriating and serves to hide your bulge well. Let’s just say I was not expecting you to look like you do.”

 

“Like I do?”

 

“Um, a bit large, I mean.”

 

Sherlock blinked. He knew the average length and girth of British male genitalia when flaccid and erect. He had measured his at some point and thought that he remembered he was somewhere around average.

 

“I mean, you’re basically proportional for your height, lengthwise. So that’s not surprising, but your girth. It’s large, Sherlock.”

 

“Is that alright?” Sherlock looked slightly worried.

 

“Yes, it’s a turn-on actually.”

 

“Um. Well. I wondered about you too. With my superior power of observation, I am not surprised about your appearance…nude. While flaccid, I mean.” Sherlock couldn’t believe he was admitting this to John. To naked John. In his bed. “I mean, those white seersucker pants you wore last summer with the black polo shirt? It was enlightening,” he said with a wistful look on his face. “Unlike my trousers which are tailored to be loose fitting in that area, those white pants left little to the imagination. You didn’t have to be the world’s only consulting detective to see exactly what was going on. Down there.”

 

John hid his face in Sherlock’s belly. He had noticed that the pants showed a little more than his jeans, but he thought at the time that it was fine. People don’t actually look at other people’s crotches do they? _Oh god._ People do look, don’t they? He looked. He looked at everyone. He looked for bulges. Wow. Was he a pervert?

 

“No, John. It’s perfectly normal.” John wondered how Sherlock could read his mind without even seeing his face.

 

With a noise that cleared his throat, John grumbled, “I try not to be obvious about it, but I guess I check out everyone. From head to toe. All of the time.” He looked mortified.

 

Sherlock just kept sweeping his long fingers along the nape of John’s neck, into the hairs on the back of his head. John hummed with satisfaction. They were quiet for a few minutes. Sherlock’s shoulders started shaking a bit. John startled that maybe he was weeping, but why would that be? Confused, he looked up at Sherlock’s giggling face.

 

“What’s funny?”

 

“I guess everyone is a pervert and so are you. I guess I’m a pervert too, when it comes to you, because I could see that you were approximately 3 to 4 inches in those damned white pants. But.” Sherlock got a bit breathless with laughter. He was starting to get hysterical. God, what was wrong with him? “I think the hormones are making me an idiot.”

 

“But what?” John asked.

 

“But. But how could I deduce how much of a ‘grower’ you are. That is the term, isn’t it?” Sherlock chuckled again and reached for John’s cock and balls and placed his huge hand over John’s whole package and said, “There is no statistical relationship between flaccid and erect length. How was I to know what your erectile tissue would do?” Now Sherlock laughed, still cupping John with his left hand and squeezing around his shoulders with his right. Sherlock was holding him at either end of his torso and sort of rocking him against his side.

 

John looked confused and amused, probably because he didn’t know why Sherlock was laughing. But the truth is, Sherlock was so damned giddy he felt like that time Mycroft had let him drink hard cider when he was thirteen years old.

 

“Well, now you know what my erectile tissue does,” he smirked with gleaming eyes.

 

“Intimately,” he said with a mirroring smirk.

 

Sherlock stopped laughing and flipped them over so John was on his back and him hovering on all four limbs with his face over John’s groin. Sherlock cocked his head and stared at John’s soft penis. “It’s really a tiny little thing now, isn’t it?”

 

John scoffed but smiled as he said, “Sod off. Now you have me lying on my back, what did you think? It’s all worn out now.”

 

Sherlock rolled the glans of John’s cock with his thumb on the frenulum and his forefinger and middle finger on the corona. He relaxed down along John’s side with his head resting on his hip with his eyes focused on John’s cock in his hand. “It could even be called cute.”

 

“Oi,” John grunted, but there was absolutely no heat in the statement, “It’s not ‘cute’. It’s your freakishly large hands. They make everything look smaller.”

 

Sherlock kept rolling his fingers up and down and around the soft shaft. He loved the heft of it. The flesh was completely flaccid but had weight, a dense strength and Sherlock couldn’t keep his hands away. His gaze remained fixed on John’s cock as he rubbed and fondled every intimate inch.

 

Sherlock could see John’s eyes open watching his fingers. Then he sighed and closed them with a slight furrow of his brow.

 

John sighed again, opened his eyes, and looked at Sherlock intensely, “So we were both looking at each other’s trousers trying to deduce what our cocks looked like and neither of us said anything. For years. We are such idiots. We have been idiots for years.” Then John looked at Sherlock with fire in his eyes, all of a sudden angry, “Why couldn’t you deduce it? Why couldn’t you deduce how I felt? Or how I would react if you told me how you felt?” His voice had dropped to a harsh whisper, the way it did when John was really very furious.

 

Sherlock was shocked by the sudden turn in moods. It was like a chemical titration but with emotional thoughts. One small emotional drip, drip, drip after another, then one thought too many, and the explosive peak is reached. Good mood over, replaced by a new chemistry of fury.

 

Is this what sex did to people? His few past partners were little more than bodies to him so they didn’t spend much time together after the orgasms. If there even was one for him. Of course, there always was for his partners. Sherlock prided himself on being the best and brightest in everything, including bestowing pleasure on casual hook-ups he gave zero fucks about. It was for his own satisfaction that his partners were blown away (no pun intended).

 

“John,” he whispered, then cleared his throat and looked at John up through his eyelashes and said with a stronger voice, “I have to apologize.”

 

John scoffed. Sherlock didn’t do apologies.

 

“I deduced that you were attracted to me when we first met, but then it seemed like you got to know me better and decided that I wasn’t worthy of your attention in that way.”

 

John stared at him but seemed to be fuming at the revelation that Sherlock had noticed his interest on that first night.

 

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock exclaimed, now exasperated. “You’re quite adamant about your ‘not gay’ speech in reaction to anyone’s inquiry about us.”

 

John had the good grace to look slightly less angry at that.

 

“The night of your first date with Sarah, you said you hoped I wasn’t suggesting you and I go on a date. Remember? You said what you and Sarah were about to do, you hoped I wasn’t suggesting we do together. What was I to think?” He finished quietly, “I knew then that your attraction to me was over. Which was fine actually, my feelings for you were not known to me then.”

 

John deflated. He didn’t seem angry anymore, “You idiot. I was deflecting. In denial. I was a stupid, stupid man. It’s one thing for me to be an idiot, but you. You must be blind, love.” John smiled around the endearment and Sherlock decided to smile back, shocked into silence by that word.

 

During the last few minutes, Sherlock had reluctantly stopped fondling John but his head remained on his hip. “So you did want to go on a date with me?”

 

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I was so focused on my attraction to Sarah. I had suppressed every romantic feeling I had for you,” John made a frustrated noise, then looked squarely into Sherlock’s eyes. “I meant what I said last night. But I had a lot of time to train myself, or fool myself into thinking I was not in love with you.”

 

“Why now?”

 

John didn’t say anything for a long time. He let his eyes roam over Sherlock’s upturned face. He reached out his hand and stroked his index and middle fingers along Sherlock’s upper lip. Next his lower lip. Finally, his cheekbones and down the length of his nose. He let his hand drop to his other hip.

He blushed, and said very quietly, “Your arse.”

 

Sherlock looked at him, amazed at the color his face and ears were turning with that two-word admission. _What about my arse?_

 

“A few days ago when we were in Soho at that posh restaurant.”

 

There was a corpse found in France, and through cooperative work between Scotland Yard and the Police Nationale, the body was identified as a sous chef who worked in Soho. Sherlock and John were called in when a second corpse was found with his flayed open stomach displayed in a large jar on the restaurant’s kitchen shelves. _Obvious, John_ , _truffles!_

“Your deductions were brilliant as usual. Your coat always swings so lovely. Your beautiful face, and lips. And your eyes, holy fuck, your eyes.”

 

Now it was Sherlock’s turn to blush. His eyes huge as he listened to John say the sweetest, most amazing, and he thought mostly undeserved things about him.

 

“It hit me again. I’ve been back with you for a few months now and I’ve loved every bit of it. I realized I wasn’t annoyed by you showing off or your inappropriate excitement at crime scenes because I know you do actually care. Or your rudeness. Hell, people deserve it most of the time. I looked at you, and you had taken off the Belstaff and bent over the corpse. I stared at your arse, and my brain went still and my body went stiff, well, one part to be overly detailed about it. I knew that lust had taken over in that moment.” John giggled, “I was able to keep it at bay for years, and then you just had to take off your coat.”

 

Sherlock fucking loved that giggle. It meant John was happy in that moment. Sherlock shifted up John’s body and turned them so they were face to face on the mattress on their sides.

 

“I know you better every day, and I realized that I love every bit of you. So, yeah, I had a couple of days to think about it and I decided to stop being afraid.”

 

Sherlock was still staring deeply into John’s eyes, but his lips had started to quiver and his eyes were stinging with unshed tears. He blinked, willing the tears to resorb into his eyes and not fall embarrassingly down his cheeks.

 

“I want to learn more and more about you. Learning every inch of your gorgeous body will distract me for a while, I’m sure, and I’m so looking forward to it. But I want to know it all, Sherlock. I need to know that we are committed, together, that nothing will ever come between us.” John whispered fiercely, “I’m all in, I can’t do this part way. You can’t get bored, and piss off on some adventure without me. You have to say yes, please. You have to say you’ll stay with me.” John was breathing heavy at the end, with red-rimmed eyes of his own.

 

“John,” he strangled out. “Please, please.”

 

John just stared.

 

“I promise. Everything you said. I promise.” Then Sherlock broke into a huge grin, and a few tears slid down his cheek when his eyes crinkled.

 

“We’re so pathetic,” John choked out, now smiling. They stared at each other for a few minutes, just breathing and touching each other’s cheeks. “Keep talking about my cock.”

 

Sherlock paused, blinked, and said, “If I touch it with my lips, what happens?”

 

John moaned, “You’ll find out, I trust your superior deduct...ahhh…fuuuuck.”

 

Sherlock smugly loved making John non-verbal. This was going to be fun.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted this to be a funny confession about trouser bulges but it turned a bit angsty and a bit fluffy. This is my first thing I've written ever, and I'm a middle-aged person (!) so please be gentle. I would love to hear what you thought. I am [onesmallfamily](http://onesmallfamily.tumblr.com) on Tumblr.


End file.
